you are asleep and I am awake writing about you sleeping.
what seems to matter right now is that you are grieving
something in a dream – it is a man in a car driving faster,
and further then your feet can run.
and then there is a ladder and a platform above, a solitary
place with a gun on a bed and a story book of you living out
a different fable – overcoming that car and talking to that
man who is confused that he ever even knew you.
a voice sews it all together into a neat and orderly tapestry,
a dog on the leash of a master, a girl in a pretty floral dress,
a family sitting in some grass eating a picnic, and the voice
that sews you into all of this, is moaning…
now in bed you wake from the ramblings of your REMs and
stare at the mirror on the ceiling taking in a picture of
yourself as a dove exhausted from flying rescue missions,
or as a child with legs that are shaking from running after –
a daddy too busy with ignorance to remember a clear and
innocent night pumping worry into a woman he would
eventually marry. and then you sleep again like so many
of us on a night like this – to dream of different outcomes.